


The Duties of the King’s Page

by Zdenka



Category: Chess (Board Game)
Genre: Gen, Loyalty, Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 15:10:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17164283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zdenka/pseuds/Zdenka
Summary: A pawn's service and sacrifice.





	The Duties of the King’s Page

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Reishiin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reishiin/gifts).



> Thanks to Lea (booksareourlove) for beta-reading.

Melane was there in the Great Hall when the Queen took formal leave of the King before riding off to war. The King was a dignified figure as he stood on the dais with his face veiled; his black robes, stiff with embroidery, rustled gently with his movements. Two black-clad priests stood behind him, adding the power of their prayers to his.

The Queen knelt down before the King, her back very straight, and Melane craned her neck to see as the King raised his hands over her. “May the gods of our land bless you,” the King said solemnly, “and grant victory to your sword.”

At his gesture, the King’s Knight, Sir Nera, stepped forward with military precision. She held a sheathed sword resting across her forearm, wrapped in a black cloth. The King took the sword from his knight and presented it to the Queen, still in its wrappings. He did not touch the hilt. The King was forbidden to be in the presence of death, to touch steel, or to wield a weapon save in the last desperate defense of his person; even then, it was said to bring ill fortune to the country, and the King would have to undergo days of purification and fasting to regain the gods’ favor.

The Queen took the sword from him with both hands, letting the black cloth fall away. “I receive this sword,” she said, “to fight for our country and its King. May the gods of our land watch over you while I am gone, and may they bless us with victory!” She stood and drew the sword in a single swift motion, and all the soldiers shouted with one voice. Melane cheered too, though her voice was lost in the tumult.

The Queen was to leave the next morning with the army. That evening, she summoned Melane to her chambers. Melane bowed to the Queen and stood in silence. She forced herself to be still and not fidget nervously as she awaited the Queen’s commands. Her duties had seldom taken her into the Queen’s presence before; she seemed fierce and beautiful to Melane, like a falcon at rest.

The Queen seemed in no hurry to speak, examining Melane carefully. Finally she said, “This is the first time we have been at war since you became the King’s page.”

“Yes, my lady.”

The Queen fixed Melane with her gaze. “You are old enough now,” she said. “You know your duty.” She took a sheathed dagger from the table beside her and held it out to Melane. “If the castle walls are breached, if the knights and priests fall or are fighting elsewhere, you are the King’s last line of defense. You must protect him until help comes, even with your life. Do you understand?”

Melane solemnly took the dagger from the Queen’s hands. “Yes, my lady,” she vowed. “I will protect the King even with my life.”

The Queen inclined her head. “That is well,” she said. “Now, go and rest. The battle will not be tomorrow, nor the next day. And the fighting may not come here at all.”

Melane bowed again and left the Queen’s chambers, feeling a thrill of mingled fear and pride.

Once she was back in her own small room, she drew the dagger and held it out, wondering what it would be like to use it. The blade shone silver like the moon, and the edges looked very sharp. With a shiver, she sheathed the blade again and tucked it carefully into the breast of her robe. She made sure that she could reach it quickly if needed.

The next day the Queen’s army rode away, with banners proudly displayed and their armor flashing in the sunlight. Melane stood on the castle walls to watch them go.

Melane thought things would change now that they were at war, but except for the absence of the Queen and those who served her, life in the palace continued much as usual. The daily rituals of serving the King remained the same. Melane performed her duties conscientiously; surely, it was more important than ever to keep the favor of the gods at such a time and not to anger them by some lapse. She tried to stay near the King’s chambers or in the pages’ wing, in case the King had some need of her. But once a day she climbed the stairs to the top of the walls and looked southward, in the direction the Queen had gone.

Sir Nera found her there one day and greeted her. “Melane, isn’t it?” she said in her rasping voice.

Melane stood straighter. “Yes, Sir Knight.” Sir Nera’s appearance should have been frightening; she was tall and strong, her face seamed with scars from many battles, and the armor she wore made her seem even more formidable. There was something in the way she moved, even to the way she walked or turned her head or fixed her gaze on a potential threat, that gave a sense of controlled power. But her presence kept the King safe, and that made Melane feel safer as well.

“Are you looking for the enemy?” Nera came closer and leaned casually against the stone wall of the battlements. “The war is still being fought in skirmishes near the border. It will be weeks before anything happens here, if it does at all.”

“Oh,” Melane said, abashed. “I didn’t know.”

“Unless one of their knights or priests slips through the battle-lines, to strike at the heart of our country.” Nera’s eyes were glinting. “But you won’t see them either, until it’s too late.”

Melane caught her breath. “Is it true,” she faltered, “that the priests of the southern gods can melt stone like water? That they can kill with a touch?”

Sir Nera laughed. “They die if you put a sword through them,” she said. “That’s the important thing.” She straightened. “Don’t concern yourself too much with imagining possibilities. Be prepared, but look to what is in front of you. Your duty is to serve the King.”

 “Yes, Sir Knight.” Melane bowed to her, feeling obscurely comforted.

Sir Nera gave a faint twitch of her lips that was not quite a smile. She inclined her head in return and strode off along the battlements.

Nothing of note happened until the third week after the Queen’s departure. Melane was on duty outside the King’s chambers when Sir Nera asked to be announced.

“Let her enter,” the King said.

Melane waited until the King had veiled himself and then showed her in. She stepped aside, ready to resume her post outside the door. But the knight held up a hand to stop her. “You may as well stay,” she said cheerfully. “You can bring word to the rest of the King’s household.”

The King raised his head. “It is time then?” he said quietly.

Sir Nera drew a letter from the breast of her robe and passed it to him. Melane recognized the Queen’s seal.

The King broke the seal, read over the letter and nodded. “Her Majesty sends word,” he said, “that the fighting is drawing closer to the capital, and she advises that we withdraw to the Eastern Fortress for safety.” His head turned toward Melane, though his veil hid his face; Melane wished she could guess at his thoughts. “Melane, send the Master of the Royal Household to me, and then inform the other pages.”

Melane bowed low. “Yes, my lord.”

The King’s household greeted the news with suppressed excitement. The other pages whispered stories passed down from their mothers and grandmothers of what had happened the last time the south had threatened to invade, exchanged tales of the ghosts that were said to haunt the old fortress, and made guesses as to who would be brought along and who would be left behind.

 _Don’t concern yourself too much with possibilities,_ Melane reminded herself, and tried not to speculate. Still, her heart beat faster when the Master of the Household called them in to read the list of those who would be accompanying the King to the Eastern Fortress, and she could not help the silent burst of joy when her name was read out. She paused a moment in the midst of her packing and touched the dagger the Queen had given her where it lay hidden in her robe.

It was not a long journey to the Eastern Fortress, but they went slowly, accompanied by a long line of soldiers and attendants. Melane rode with others of the King’s household in a cramped, closed carriage that bumped and jolted along the mountain paths. She was glad when they arrived at the fortress and she could stretch her legs. Though of course there was much to be done in readying the King’s quarters and getting everyone settled; there were braziers to be lit, tapestries and rugs to be placed to make the chill stone fortress more comfortable, so the King should feel at home.

With fewer of the royal household present, Melane found herself called to attend on the King more often. By custom, he was allowed to unveil in his own chambers. Melane did not look directly at the King’s face when he was unveiled; she kept her eyes lowered, seeing only his chin and his neatly trimmed dark beard. She did not need to see his face; she could hear the smile in his voice when he was pleased, or the grave concern when something seemed amiss.

Sometimes Melane stood beside the King while he prayed for their land’s safety and the Queen’s victory in war. She politely averted her face while he lit the candles and incense on the altar. The King unveiled his face before the gods, as he would not before man or woman. His prayers were earnest and fervent. Melane prayed too as she watched the curls of smoke from the incense rise up toward heaven, though she did not know if the gods would weigh her prayers equally with those of a King.

Nera rode out sometimes on scouting expeditions with a small band of soldiers. She always seemed pleased to go, eager as a dog let out to hunt. She returned dusty and with mud on her boots, but with a satisfied air.

Once Nera had washed off the dust of travel and put on court garb, she presented herself to the King. Melane was sent out of the room for Nera’s reports, if she happened to be there. She could tell little from the King’s demeanor, but Nera greeted her cheerfully, so Melane hoped the war was going well.

It was a morning like all the others, and Melane was serving the King’s breakfast. Nera was out on one of her expeditions; Melane knew that she was expected back mid-morning. She set down the breakfast tray on its stand and carefully moved each of the dishes to the table. She enjoyed the ritual of pouring the tea, breathing in the scent as the steam rose up.

There was sudden noise outside the King’s chambers: a shout of protest and then a scream. Melane started and spilled the tea. She stammered an apology and reached for a cloth to wipe it up, but the King shook his head. He drew his veil over his face and rose to his feet, his attention fixed on the door.

But it was not from the door that the danger came. Half the wall suddenly melted away, the jagged edges glowing like fire. A stranger stepped through into the room: a foreigner with shaven head, in white robes marked with strange symbols. Melane stood frozen in terror. This was surely a priest of the enemy’s cruel gods, who could turn night to day, who could kill with a word or a touch. Wisps of smoke rose from his hands, and Melane was absurdly reminded of the steam rising from the King’s teacup.

The white priest advanced toward the King. “Show your face,” he said harshly. That was a demand for a defeated and shamed King, one soon to be dead. That was something from the stories, she thought frantically. It could not happen now, not here! But the King was moving calmly past her toward the priest, his hand gripping the sheathed dagger in his belt, that he must not draw unless his very life was in danger.

“No,” Melane whispered. And then louder, “No!” She flung herself past the King, putting herself between her lord and the enemy.

The enemy priest stared at her in mingled surprise and scorn, as if a mouse had bitten him. “Out of the way,” he said.

Melane drew the dagger from her robe. She was gripping the dagger’s hilt so hard her knuckles turned white. She was no warrior, but there was no one else. This was the time the Queen had spoken of, when Melane must defend the King’s life.

Melane took another step forward towards the priest. Looking almost bored, he raised his hands. White lightning flared around her. Melane screamed, the pain too intense for her to breathe. She could smell something burning. Her legs would no longer hold her up, and she collapsed in a heap to the carpet.

As from a great distance, she heard someone moving past her. There was a great crash and a clattering of dishes, as if someone had knocked over the breakfast table, and then a harsh cry from the priest.

Melane forced herself to lift her head. She could see the hem of a black surcoat and a familiar pair of boots, scuffed and dusty.  And then someone’s hands were lifting her up, so she could see.

The King’s Knight was standing before her, her face grim and her sword covered with blood. The priest lay still on the floor at her feet; a red stain was spreading through his white robes.

Sir Nera bowed low, her posture formal. “Forgive me, my lord.”

“You came in time,” the King’s voice said from behind her. Stiff robes, heavy with embroidery, were at her back, scratchy against her cheek. And that meant the one holding her must be— She tried to pull away.

“It is not fitting, my lord,” she tried to say, though her voice was barely above a whisper.

“Lie still,” the King said firmly. He lowered her so that her head rested against his knee, and pushed back his veil. It was the first time Melane had ever looked directly at the King’s face. He had a kind face, she thought, though now he looked distressed. “Sir Nera,” the King said, “is there anything—?” Nera knelt down beside them. Melane could not see her face, but the King bowed his head.

“My lord,” Nera said warningly. “If she is not brought elsewhere, you will have to undergo purification.”

“I understand,” the King said, his face set. “What news from the battle?”

“This was their last attempt,” Nera said with grim satisfaction. “They won’t get so close again. The Queen sent word that she expects victory within a few days.”

“That’s good,” Melane whispered.

“Yes,” the King agreed quietly. “It is good.” His hand rested gently on her hair. The pain was gone; her limbs seemed too heavy to move, and she had the passing thought that it should trouble her. She wanted to close her eyes; but surely it was not proper, in the King’s presence?

The King seemed to guess her thought. “Rest now, Melane,” he said, his voice soft and filled with a sadness she didn’t understand. She let the darkness drift over her.


End file.
